Ficathon entry: Picture # 14: Little White Baggy
My second entry for the ficathon! I will actually post the picture this time so people know what I'm supposed to be responding to. ^_^
Here goes...
Title: Little White Baggy
Rating: M for sensuality and adult themes (no smut yet... give me time)
Pairing: MM/WW
Wendy has to go above and beyond the call of duty in order to get an alien to talk.
The club smelled of sex and cheap liquor. Even the sweat that poured from oiled up bodies and grabby fingers smelled like it. The Middleman took one whiff of the offensive odor and turned up his perfectly shaped nose. He stood out like a sore thumb in his neatly pressed Eisenhower jacket and tie, but he’d paid the $7 cover fee just like anyone else, so the bouncer let him through. He was even cute enough that some of the dancers found it in them to spare him a second glance. Some of the men did too, though it had more to do with his happy-go-lucky appearance than the fact that he looked like a Calvin Klein model during a WWII photo shoot.
He weaved through the tables of unwashed men and loud women until he reached the stage. His object of desire was up there on the stage, dancing rather provocatively to “Toxic” while removing bits and pieces of her already skimpy outfit. Her name was Yolanda. This was a strictly professional desire to talk to her, however. A man of his moral standards would never be swayed by something so primitive as the slow revealing of flesh! Still, it would be rude to interrupt her during her number, so he moved quietly over to the bar and ordered himself a tall glass of milk. Never mind the funny look the barman gave him, or the fact that a particularly burly man tried to get up in his face, but promptly looked uncomfortable and left after looking for the Middleman’s shoulder.
That was just fine with him, he thought as he stared at the liquid white swirling in the bottom of his glass. He was never one for violence anyway. But when the man never got more than one butt cheek off the bar stool, and still stared at something unseen to the Middleman, he knew something was up. He set down his finished class of milk, wiped the inevitable mustache from his upper lip, and swiveled around to face the threat.
Wendy Watson blended into the sex and the sweat and the alcohol. Her fish-net clad legs seemed made to mold around the pole. A tiny black skirt barely peek out from beneath a black Dick Tracey style coat, with only a black bra underneath that barely covered the swells of her breasts. Her arms were crossed, but it only served to jut her breasts upward. Before an ill-timed “Grapes of Wrath!” could slip out, Wendy cut off his oncoming exclamation.
“So what’s the plan here boss?” she asked as she sidled up to the bar next to him. In that calm Wendy Watson way of hers, she acted as if she wasn’t every man’s wet dream come to life and focused solely on the mission. “I get backstage and slip Cynthia the secretly alien stripper some truth powder, and then bingo, she gives us the name of her weapons supplier?”
Middleman cleared his throat and forced himself to continue to stare into her eyes, lest his gaze wander somewhere lower.
“Spot on, Dubbie.” He chimed out cheerfully. “Now just…” But before he could reach into his pocket to pull out the small baggy full of white truth powder, a twig-like woman in a red sequenced bra and micro-short black pleather shorts came up and gripped Wendy’s arm tightly.
“Listen,” she said between snaps of gum, “Jessie is puking her guts out over some bad tequila, and Forest is going to be a few minutes late. Something to do with her son l don’t know. But I need you to go on.”
Wendy’s jaw dropped to the floor.
“What? I don’t…” she started to say, but then remembered the mission. The stupid mission which required her to dress like a common whore, but definitely did not entail dancing in front of a lot of people. If she blew her cover now, her shot at getting close enough to Cynthia the Alien Stripper would be lost. More importantly, if Cynthia’s weapons dealer got a hold of the super massive weapon they were rather sure he would be obtaining, the whole world would be lost.
Some days, she seriously hated her job.
Without a single word, but with a very stony glare at her boss, Wendy followed the gum chewing woman back stage. Go with the flow, she told herself. This is why the Middleman picked her for this position - her ability to think and improvise in the face of unlikely or difficult situations. She could do this. Definitely. It was only an entire room full of pervy, wife-beater wearing sweaty men who wanted very much to squeeze anything with breasts. She’d be fine.
It seemed less and less like her job as she was ushered back stage, but only as far as the wings. She was going on RIGHT THEN, and she didn’t even have the truth powder she was supposed to slip Cynthia. So far, she was sucking hard core at this job.
“Make ‘em drool,” one particularly gorgeous woman winked at her as the music cued up. “Oh My God” by Pink. A song she would admit to having on her IPOD, but definitely not one she ever thought she’d perform in public. Mercifully, she didn’t have too much time to ponder what she was about to do, because Red Bra shoved her forcefully from the wings, and the whistles and cat calls erupted from the crowd.
On the plus side, the lights were so hot and bright on her face that she could hardly see past the first row of gentlemen. On the negative side, there were an awful lot of men in the front row - all of them stretching their hands out to stuff dollar bills down her underwear and make grabs at her breasts. A smirk of a smile stretched across her face as she slid through a mental scene of unleashing the full force of Sensei Ping’s training on one of those slobbering grins she saw.
What the hell, she thought, then took a deep breath, and launched herself at the pole. All the muscles she’d built up from training gave her the ability to slide ever so slowly down the warm metal, legs spread eagle, high heels puncturing the air above her. She’d seen enough movies about kick ass women to mimic their movements on stage, and went about doing just that.
Never before in the history of his moderately lengthy lifespan had the Middleman found himself in a position where oxygen would not enter his lungs when his airways were completely open. The sight of his partner practically making love to a metal pole kicked the crap out of him. Oxygen? What was that? Since when was it necessary for survival? He stumbled a few feet forward, placing a hand on the shoulder of a particularly large gentleman in order to steady himself. The man didn’t take kindly to being touched by another male while watching a hot female undress herself, but Middleman didn’t particularly care, because he was soon shoving himself forward towards the stage.
Christ, she was beautiful. The way the lights reflected off her skin, the curve of her stomach as her hips rolled in slow motion. He had been very good about keeping improper thoughts about his sidekick to a minimum, but they all came flooding back as he watched her wrap her long legs around the pole and slide all the way down it, head thrown back in mock ecstasy, black curls tumbling behind her.
A particularly amazing mental stream flashed across his mind for a fraction of a second. Wendy writhing beneath him, those long legs wrapped around his waist. Though in this one she was wearing fishnets and a Dick Tracy jacket, the scene was familiar, as it haunted his dreams nightly. On the bench of the showers, wrapped up in the throws of sexual frustration and near death, the reasons varied but the result was always the same. Kissing her until she moaned, pumping into her until her screams echoed off the steamy walls.
A hand on his ass shook him from his incredibly vivid daydream. He found himself once again staring at Wendy, but broke his gaze to identify the intrusion. It was Red Bra, who’d developed a look in her eyes that clearly read [BLEEP] me. This wouldn’t do at all. Despite the fact that he had found Wendy increasingly attractive, and the mission equally unimportant, he still had to complete it. He took Red Bra’s hand from his rear end, and cordially placed it onto the shoulder of another patron. The patron immediately took notice of what he thought was interest on Red Bra’s part, and drew her into his lap, fondling her breasts as he went. Middleman took the opportunity to push himself right next to the stage. There was still a matter of getting the truth powder to Wendy without anyone noticing.
Wendy noticed her boss the moment he slipped past the line of glaring lights. She had secretly hoped he wasn’t watching this humiliation, that he had perhaps glued himself to the bar to deplete their stash of milk. As she glanced over briefly at him, she noticed his cheerful demeanor had vanished, replaced with something slightly darker, slightly more primal.
He caught her eyes, and help up a dollar bill. The white corner of the power packet was just barely visible, though her trained gaze caught it instantly. It was, she had to admit, a clever way of passing drugs. If she wasn’t in the business of saving the world, she could make a killing this way. Still, it was a matter of making it look like an innocent bill stuffing.
For the first time during her routine, she faltered. Her brain had finally caught up with what she was doing - more importantly what she was about to do. Damn if she’d let that stop her though.
She moved with all the coy and subtlety of a professional working girl. Crawling forward on her hands and knees, she plastered a seductive smile on her face, and placed herself within grabbing range. Immediately, hands were on her, bills were stuffed down her panties, into her bra - which was now readily available since she’d flung her coat away in a particularly uplifting part of the song. She had only one goal though - the Middleman. She had to get close enough to him so that the white packet wouldn’t be visible.
Two scoots and a seductive slide of her knees, and she was flush up against him, gripping his shoulders, rolling her body suggestively in his direction. Breathing was entirely out of the question, she was too nervous. To her credit, Wendy didn’t break character - not for a second. To the common observer, she was a beautiful woman seducing the hell out of a man for all the money she could get. What they didn’t see was the way the Middleman’s breath hitched in his throat, or the way Wendy couldn’t quite meet his gaze, which was now fixated on the spot where the curls of her hair brushed against her bare shoulder.
His fingers slid along her hips, up her ribcage and traced the delicate silk and lace of her bra. She gyrated ever closer, shortening the distance between them so there would be less chance of his slipping the drugs into her bra would be noticed by a bystander. At least that’s what she told herself, to keep from straining towards his touch with every single fiber of her being.
The dollar bill scraped along her skin and his finger skimmed behind, along the edge of her bra. Heat spread out along her breasts, shot up to her brain, and suddenly her whole body was on fire. Her eyes fluttered shut as he tucked the $20 wrapped around the baggy into her bra - left enough of the $20 showing so that people wouldn’t get suspicious. His fingers dipped just a fraction of an inch below the line of her bra but the contact of skin on skin in a way they’d never shared previously had her falling apart at the seams.
The whole time he was passing her truth powder, men around her were stuffing as many bills as they could manage into her panties, garter, even boots. It wasn’t until one of the men had the audacity to stick more than just money down her panties. Wendy barely had time to let out a gasp of shock before Middleman had him splayed out on the floor and unconscious.
“A gentleman never touches a woman there without her express permission,” he muttered. Wendy slid backwards towards the pole - away from grabbing hands - but had a small smile on her lips as she did. She kept her gaze on him, and when he turned back towards her, he caught her gaze and wouldn’t let go. The final twirl around the pole she did with a genuine smile on her face, and when her routine was finished, she gave him a tiny salute. Back to the mission.
Time to truth up Cynthia the Alien Stripper.
There would be plenty of time to release the hot-and-heavy fantasy hounds that were now clawing at her brain when she was back in her apartment.
Comments are love!!
And now, to sleep. Staying up late to write fanfiction is fun, but is definitely not conducive to a productive day at work and class.
Here goes...
Title: Little White Baggy
Rating: M for sensuality and adult themes (no smut yet... give me time)
Pairing: MM/WW
Wendy has to go above and beyond the call of duty in order to get an alien to talk.
The club smelled of sex and cheap liquor. Even the sweat that poured from oiled up bodies and grabby fingers smelled like it. The Middleman took one whiff of the offensive odor and turned up his perfectly shaped nose. He stood out like a sore thumb in his neatly pressed Eisenhower jacket and tie, but he’d paid the $7 cover fee just like anyone else, so the bouncer let him through. He was even cute enough that some of the dancers found it in them to spare him a second glance. Some of the men did too, though it had more to do with his happy-go-lucky appearance than the fact that he looked like a Calvin Klein model during a WWII photo shoot.
He weaved through the tables of unwashed men and loud women until he reached the stage. His object of desire was up there on the stage, dancing rather provocatively to “Toxic” while removing bits and pieces of her already skimpy outfit. Her name was Yolanda. This was a strictly professional desire to talk to her, however. A man of his moral standards would never be swayed by something so primitive as the slow revealing of flesh! Still, it would be rude to interrupt her during her number, so he moved quietly over to the bar and ordered himself a tall glass of milk. Never mind the funny look the barman gave him, or the fact that a particularly burly man tried to get up in his face, but promptly looked uncomfortable and left after looking for the Middleman’s shoulder.
That was just fine with him, he thought as he stared at the liquid white swirling in the bottom of his glass. He was never one for violence anyway. But when the man never got more than one butt cheek off the bar stool, and still stared at something unseen to the Middleman, he knew something was up. He set down his finished class of milk, wiped the inevitable mustache from his upper lip, and swiveled around to face the threat.
Wendy Watson blended into the sex and the sweat and the alcohol. Her fish-net clad legs seemed made to mold around the pole. A tiny black skirt barely peek out from beneath a black Dick Tracey style coat, with only a black bra underneath that barely covered the swells of her breasts. Her arms were crossed, but it only served to jut her breasts upward. Before an ill-timed “Grapes of Wrath!” could slip out, Wendy cut off his oncoming exclamation.
“So what’s the plan here boss?” she asked as she sidled up to the bar next to him. In that calm Wendy Watson way of hers, she acted as if she wasn’t every man’s wet dream come to life and focused solely on the mission. “I get backstage and slip Cynthia the secretly alien stripper some truth powder, and then bingo, she gives us the name of her weapons supplier?”
Middleman cleared his throat and forced himself to continue to stare into her eyes, lest his gaze wander somewhere lower.
“Spot on, Dubbie.” He chimed out cheerfully. “Now just…” But before he could reach into his pocket to pull out the small baggy full of white truth powder, a twig-like woman in a red sequenced bra and micro-short black pleather shorts came up and gripped Wendy’s arm tightly.
“Listen,” she said between snaps of gum, “Jessie is puking her guts out over some bad tequila, and Forest is going to be a few minutes late. Something to do with her son l don’t know. But I need you to go on.”
Wendy’s jaw dropped to the floor.
“What? I don’t…” she started to say, but then remembered the mission. The stupid mission which required her to dress like a common whore, but definitely did not entail dancing in front of a lot of people. If she blew her cover now, her shot at getting close enough to Cynthia the Alien Stripper would be lost. More importantly, if Cynthia’s weapons dealer got a hold of the super massive weapon they were rather sure he would be obtaining, the whole world would be lost.
Some days, she seriously hated her job.
Without a single word, but with a very stony glare at her boss, Wendy followed the gum chewing woman back stage. Go with the flow, she told herself. This is why the Middleman picked her for this position - her ability to think and improvise in the face of unlikely or difficult situations. She could do this. Definitely. It was only an entire room full of pervy, wife-beater wearing sweaty men who wanted very much to squeeze anything with breasts. She’d be fine.
It seemed less and less like her job as she was ushered back stage, but only as far as the wings. She was going on RIGHT THEN, and she didn’t even have the truth powder she was supposed to slip Cynthia. So far, she was sucking hard core at this job.
“Make ‘em drool,” one particularly gorgeous woman winked at her as the music cued up. “Oh My God” by Pink. A song she would admit to having on her IPOD, but definitely not one she ever thought she’d perform in public. Mercifully, she didn’t have too much time to ponder what she was about to do, because Red Bra shoved her forcefully from the wings, and the whistles and cat calls erupted from the crowd.
On the plus side, the lights were so hot and bright on her face that she could hardly see past the first row of gentlemen. On the negative side, there were an awful lot of men in the front row - all of them stretching their hands out to stuff dollar bills down her underwear and make grabs at her breasts. A smirk of a smile stretched across her face as she slid through a mental scene of unleashing the full force of Sensei Ping’s training on one of those slobbering grins she saw.
What the hell, she thought, then took a deep breath, and launched herself at the pole. All the muscles she’d built up from training gave her the ability to slide ever so slowly down the warm metal, legs spread eagle, high heels puncturing the air above her. She’d seen enough movies about kick ass women to mimic their movements on stage, and went about doing just that.
Never before in the history of his moderately lengthy lifespan had the Middleman found himself in a position where oxygen would not enter his lungs when his airways were completely open. The sight of his partner practically making love to a metal pole kicked the crap out of him. Oxygen? What was that? Since when was it necessary for survival? He stumbled a few feet forward, placing a hand on the shoulder of a particularly large gentleman in order to steady himself. The man didn’t take kindly to being touched by another male while watching a hot female undress herself, but Middleman didn’t particularly care, because he was soon shoving himself forward towards the stage.
Christ, she was beautiful. The way the lights reflected off her skin, the curve of her stomach as her hips rolled in slow motion. He had been very good about keeping improper thoughts about his sidekick to a minimum, but they all came flooding back as he watched her wrap her long legs around the pole and slide all the way down it, head thrown back in mock ecstasy, black curls tumbling behind her.
A particularly amazing mental stream flashed across his mind for a fraction of a second. Wendy writhing beneath him, those long legs wrapped around his waist. Though in this one she was wearing fishnets and a Dick Tracy jacket, the scene was familiar, as it haunted his dreams nightly. On the bench of the showers, wrapped up in the throws of sexual frustration and near death, the reasons varied but the result was always the same. Kissing her until she moaned, pumping into her until her screams echoed off the steamy walls.
A hand on his ass shook him from his incredibly vivid daydream. He found himself once again staring at Wendy, but broke his gaze to identify the intrusion. It was Red Bra, who’d developed a look in her eyes that clearly read [BLEEP] me. This wouldn’t do at all. Despite the fact that he had found Wendy increasingly attractive, and the mission equally unimportant, he still had to complete it. He took Red Bra’s hand from his rear end, and cordially placed it onto the shoulder of another patron. The patron immediately took notice of what he thought was interest on Red Bra’s part, and drew her into his lap, fondling her breasts as he went. Middleman took the opportunity to push himself right next to the stage. There was still a matter of getting the truth powder to Wendy without anyone noticing.
Wendy noticed her boss the moment he slipped past the line of glaring lights. She had secretly hoped he wasn’t watching this humiliation, that he had perhaps glued himself to the bar to deplete their stash of milk. As she glanced over briefly at him, she noticed his cheerful demeanor had vanished, replaced with something slightly darker, slightly more primal.
He caught her eyes, and help up a dollar bill. The white corner of the power packet was just barely visible, though her trained gaze caught it instantly. It was, she had to admit, a clever way of passing drugs. If she wasn’t in the business of saving the world, she could make a killing this way. Still, it was a matter of making it look like an innocent bill stuffing.
For the first time during her routine, she faltered. Her brain had finally caught up with what she was doing - more importantly what she was about to do. Damn if she’d let that stop her though.
She moved with all the coy and subtlety of a professional working girl. Crawling forward on her hands and knees, she plastered a seductive smile on her face, and placed herself within grabbing range. Immediately, hands were on her, bills were stuffed down her panties, into her bra - which was now readily available since she’d flung her coat away in a particularly uplifting part of the song. She had only one goal though - the Middleman. She had to get close enough to him so that the white packet wouldn’t be visible.
Two scoots and a seductive slide of her knees, and she was flush up against him, gripping his shoulders, rolling her body suggestively in his direction. Breathing was entirely out of the question, she was too nervous. To her credit, Wendy didn’t break character - not for a second. To the common observer, she was a beautiful woman seducing the hell out of a man for all the money she could get. What they didn’t see was the way the Middleman’s breath hitched in his throat, or the way Wendy couldn’t quite meet his gaze, which was now fixated on the spot where the curls of her hair brushed against her bare shoulder.
His fingers slid along her hips, up her ribcage and traced the delicate silk and lace of her bra. She gyrated ever closer, shortening the distance between them so there would be less chance of his slipping the drugs into her bra would be noticed by a bystander. At least that’s what she told herself, to keep from straining towards his touch with every single fiber of her being.
The dollar bill scraped along her skin and his finger skimmed behind, along the edge of her bra. Heat spread out along her breasts, shot up to her brain, and suddenly her whole body was on fire. Her eyes fluttered shut as he tucked the $20 wrapped around the baggy into her bra - left enough of the $20 showing so that people wouldn’t get suspicious. His fingers dipped just a fraction of an inch below the line of her bra but the contact of skin on skin in a way they’d never shared previously had her falling apart at the seams.
The whole time he was passing her truth powder, men around her were stuffing as many bills as they could manage into her panties, garter, even boots. It wasn’t until one of the men had the audacity to stick more than just money down her panties. Wendy barely had time to let out a gasp of shock before Middleman had him splayed out on the floor and unconscious.
“A gentleman never touches a woman there without her express permission,” he muttered. Wendy slid backwards towards the pole - away from grabbing hands - but had a small smile on her lips as she did. She kept her gaze on him, and when he turned back towards her, he caught her gaze and wouldn’t let go. The final twirl around the pole she did with a genuine smile on her face, and when her routine was finished, she gave him a tiny salute. Back to the mission.
Time to truth up Cynthia the Alien Stripper.
There would be plenty of time to release the hot-and-heavy fantasy hounds that were now clawing at her brain when she was back in her apartment.
Comments are love!!
And now, to sleep. Staying up late to write fanfiction is fun, but is definitely not conducive to a productive day at work and class.